


homemade dynamite

by redluxite (wordstruck)



Series: homemade dynamite [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (mostly neutral language for keith's genitalia), Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboy Bebop AU, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Falling In Love, M/M, Mild Angst, PIV Sex, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Porn With Plot, Pre-Relationship, Tattoos, Trans Keith (Voltron), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/redluxite
Summary: “You know parts of what I do,” Shiro says, carefully, carefully. “Shipments, transport. Bounty hunting. It’s not the safest or steadiest job out there, but it’s – something.” He shrugs again. “Might be worth taking up. Coming with me.”The look Keith’s giving him now is downright inscrutable. His eyes are narrowed, roving over Shiro like he’s searching for something, sussing something out. For a moment Shiro’s sure Keith’s going to say no, but what comes out is – “why?”It makes Shiro pause. There are a dozen different ways he could answer that question. He taps songsteel fingers on his thigh for a few seconds before smiling wryly.“I don’t know your story,” he admits, “but I know your skills. I know you enough. You’re not meant for just racing through dust.”(Keith's a racer, Shiro's a bounty hunter, and yes, they fall in love. It just takes a while.)





	homemade dynamite

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a comm for my darling wife [@capt_shiro](https://twitter.com/capt_shiro) who said "your sheith bounty hunters au. that. i love everything about it. go wild." and so here we are. Going to make this part of an ongoing series with the rest of their "jobs" (aka more porn with some plot) being added in as one-shots. Because space bounty hunters Shiro and Keith is a good thing, and very sexy.
> 
> Inspiration taken from Cowboy Bebop and Star Wars; title taken from Homemade Dynamite by Lorde, because the first two lines inspired this whole AU.
> 
> Thank you [Kay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleskeletons) for the beta read, and [Milo](https://twitter.com/castIeship) for the sensitivity read-through! I use mostly gender neutral/non-explicit language wrt Keith during the sex. Author is queer.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

 

 _a couple rebel top-gun pilots flying with nowhere to be_ _  
_ _don’t know you super well but i think that you might be the same as me_

 

Shiro loves and hates Reatis.

The planet itself is beautiful. From the large port that takes up almost a fifth of its artificial outer ring, to the sweeping bronze desert gashed through by canyons, to the asteroid field that loops around the cosmic body from pole to pole – Reatis is stunning. The awe that Shiro feels every time he docks on the planet is matched only by the twist in his gut.

He’s here for a job – transporting some freight that will be loaded onto some rich alien’s ship. Shiro hasn’t asked what cargo he’s moving. He’s not paid to know, just to bring the boxes from Point A to B intact.

Simple enough, and the pay is good. That’s all Shiro cares about.

He guides the Black Lion ship to the nearest open docking station, beside a massive cruiser, the Bebop _._ His client has scheduled to meet him at the port, one of a hundred different transactions happening all over the ship docks. He sends a transmission to his contact, lets them know where he is. Then he goes outside to wait.

A few minutes pass by. Shiro watches the different aliens come and go around him. The chatter of a thousand languages is always oddly comforting.

“Shirogane?”

He turns and looks up… and up. A tall, lithe alien with red-orange skin is peering at him curiously. She’s hanging off a slim pole; Shiro follows the metal up to where a ship is hovering above them.

Here’s his client, then.

“Identification, please.” Shiro isn’t naive enough to trust these people off the bat. He’s had people try to intercept shipments before (and intercepted a few shipments himself). The alien pauses where she’s dropped to the ground, then smirks, clearly satisfied with his caution.

“I can’t give you my name,” she says, wry twist to her mouth. She’s got a sweet voice, Shiro thinks. “But here.”

She hands over a portable compscreen. Shiro takes it warily. He scrolls through the communications records, the logs of their transaction with him and his contact. Partially satisfied, he nods and hands it back.

“And the payment?”

The alien taps at the compscreen. A few moments later and Shiro’s own commpod vibrates. Keeping an eye on the alien in front of him, Shiro brings it out to confirm a deposit of 500,000 credits into his account.

(Not for the first time, Shiro wonders just what he’s transporting that’s worth this much, and if he should have taken Matt’s suggestion to simply run away with it and sell it on the black market.)

Suppressing a smile, Shiro verifies the transaction – fake credits are a nuisance, no matter how the galactic authorities try to crack down on it – and withdraws the full amount to a separate account before it can be reversed. He turns over the cargo he’s carrying, watches as it’s beamed up to the waiting ship. Then, satisfied that his job’s done, he nods to the alien again and turns to go.

“Oh, wait!” She reaches out and touches his right arm, making him flinch back, songsteel fingers curling into a fist on instinct. The alien blinks in surprise, hand hovering in midair. She grins at him apologetically before reaching back to rifle for something from the pack strapped to her hip. “Here!” She holds it out triumphantly.

Shiro frowns. It’s a – chip. About two inches square, black inlaid with the gold found all over Reatis. The alien waves it at him, pressing the center of the chip to activate a small hologram. “Consider it a bonus.”

That – Shiro recognizes that. He’s seen enough tickets to the Reatis races. A corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s not a cheap ticket either; the chip gets him into one of the lower-tier VIP pods.

He almost snorts. Of course his client would give him this, on top of everyone else.

The alien’s still holding it out expectantly, so Shiro takes it with what he hopes is an appreciative smile. “Thanks,” he says, as he tucks it away. The alien beams at him, then waves and takes the pole lift back up to her ship.

That’s that job done, then.

Shiro turns back to the Black Lion, considering. A large part of him wants to just get back on his ship and go, maybe hop on over to Artraxia for some downtime, or drop by Port Arus and see if Allura has another job. Maybe head over to Matt’s place. Anything to get away from Reatis. But another, curious part of him wants to stay and just maybe use the ticket he’s been given.

Exhaling a tiny, self-deprecating laugh, Shiro shakes his head and walks down the dock.

Might as well, as he’s already here.

 

The VIP pod is just as extravagant as he expected. Shiro tries not to make contact with anyone as he makes his way through the room. He finds an empty sofa and settles in the far side, eyeing the projections on the windows. When the race starts, Shiro knows, the center window changes to display the race in full, so the VIPs can watch their bets and jockeys compete for victory.

For now, there’s a list of the jockeys, their odds to win, and a running visual of the exhibition stunts and fly-bys. If Shiro lets his attention drift, he can hear the other aliens in the room discussing their bets and bragging about the riders.

Reatis has an outrageous number of casinos and gambling dens – among other things – but it’s the hovercraft races that make the planet such a draw for aliens across the universe. Whether it’s across the deep, winding canyons that cut through the gold-flecked ground, or through the perilous, ever-shifting asteroid belt that circles the planet, even the minor races can pull in an audience that’s hundreds-strong.

Just like Reatis itself, Shiro loves and hates the races too.

(In another life, Shiro might have been a jockey, might have been one of the hovercraft pilots that everyone would bet on, would fight to sponsor. In another life he’d be out there, all daring maneuvers and devil-may-care attitude and winning by the skin of his teeth.

In another life, Shiro wouldn’t be hauling blackmarket shipments, wouldn’t be piloting a patched-up freightship across the galaxies. Wouldn’t keep wearing a set of dog tags around his neck from a long, long time ago.

He puts it out of his mind.)

The rev of engines pulls his attention back, and when he looks up at the windows, the screens have changed to pan over the racers at the starting point. Shiro looks over the different jockeys and their hovercrafts – a gangly, blue-skinned alien in a hat with earflaps, with a chunky craft and a small blocky bot; an Ylirian in a sleek combat flyer in burnished chrome. A rider with a red visor and jacket, boarding what looks like a customized x-wing fighter, four powerful wings articulating up and down as the jockey does a systems check ahead of the race.

The chatter picks up, white noise and static. A countdown begins in the upper-right corner of the screen. Shiro fidgets and wonders if it would be considered rude to leave.

There’s an announcer talking, but Shiro isn’t paying attention. Songsteel fingers clench into a fist on the arm of the sofa. The engines rev louder, posturing and intimidation ahead of the real fight.

Then a klaxon sounds, and the racers take off.

It’s the Ylirian in the combat flyer who peels off first, charging to an early lead as their throttles open wide. The other racers chase the dust trails, jostling for position. One ship gets shoved into an asteroid, left wing crumpling on impact, spinning off in a cloud of smoke.

Shiro’s so caught up admiring the way the Ylirian nips their way around the shifting asteroids that he doesn’t see it coming.

The Ylirian is accelerating through the apex of the belt when it happens. Their combat flyer twists, maneuvering horizontal between two asteroids, comfortable in its lead. The odds on them winning are climbing; Shiro’s half-tempted to place a bet himself, just for the fun of it.

Then red cuts across rock and empty space, in a blue burst of engine fire. The x-wing loops out from behind a large asteroid, then with a rather intrepid drop, cuts off the Ylirian’s combat flyer to take the lead.

Shiro can’t hold back a whistle, short and low, admittedly impressed.

The combat flyer and the x-wing are neck-and-neck in the lead now. The x-wing has shot up the betting pool. The two racers pull through tight turns past the summit, into the outside curve of the asteroid belt.

Then Shiro watches, breathless, as the x-wing flips upside-down and its engines abruptly shut off. The four wings fold together, plunging the ship into freefall through an asteroid minefield, in open space. But the jockey keeps perfect control, executing a dead-engine drop past two dozen asteroids before throwing the throttles wide open just past the apex of the curve, racing forward to an insurmountable lead and a victory.

It’s terrifyingly reckless, half a step from fatal, and absolutely inspired.

Shiro doesn’t realize he’s half-holding his breath until the red x-wing breezes past the finish line, far and ahead of the closest competition. The room has erupted into cheers and shouting. He pays it no attention, watching and waiting for when the jockey exits their x-wing. He’s never felt so compelled to find out the pilot of a ship.

To his disappointment, the jockey just retracts the cockpit shield and gives the crowd a brief salute, before heading for the docking bays. The screens, which show _stunning_ odds of victory – and Shiro almost regrets not placing a bet – only list him as _Red Lightning._

Abruptly, Shiro stands and makes his way to the exit, heedless of the aliens he jostles out of his way. He’s got no status to enter the patrons’ area to ask questions, but he has other ways of finding information.

He figures digging up the name of the red x-wing jockey will make calling in the favors worth it.

 

.o0o.

 

Shiro heads to Port Arus.

Allura emerges just after Coran has slid Shiro his third glass of Martusian wine. She comes in from the back rooms, long white hair piled up in a messy bun. The noise inside the Castle of Lions falls to a low, respectful chatter as she walks across the bar floor, nodding and smiling to familiar faces. Shiro watches her appreciatively, smirking when he catches her gaze. She rolls her eyes.

“Did the transport job go well?” she asks, easing herself gracefully into the stool beside him. She doesn’t have to look up to catch Coran’s attention; he sets another glass of wine – Altean, this time, heady and sweet, one of the last ties to her lost planet – in front of her with a wink.

“Mm.” Shiro raises his glass in an ironic toast. “Flawlessly. Paid a pretty price, too.”

“Generous client.” Allura takes a delicate sip, pointedly looking forward. Shiro’s mouth pinches in humor as he exhales a sigh, and slides a slim white envelope over to her.

Her smile reeks of satisfaction as she picks it up and tucks it in the inside pocket of her coat. “It wasn’t easy to find that pilot of yours,” she says, without any sort of preamble. One slender finger idles around the rim of her glass. “There’s hardly anything about him out there. Whoever’s backing him, they’re incredibly tight-lipped. He’s quite the secret.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows, waiting for the _but._ Allura wouldn’t come to him with nothing.

She taps the glass thoughtfully. “Keith. That’s his name.” Her expression scrunches. “Races under the name _Red Lightning_. Hell of a reputation. No records at any of the major mechanic shops, any planet registries, not even the Galactic Patrol. His only record on Reatis is on the register of jockeys, with a win-loss count and logs for two racecrafts. His backer’s just listed as _private._ ”

The more Allura talks, the more Shiro understands the irritation on her face. That’s impressively little information, which only adds to the intrigue. Rather odd for a race jockey to be such a well-hidden secret.

“Thanks Allura.” This time, Shiro’s smile is warm and genuine as he stands, adjusting his jacket. Allura gives him a searching, slantwise look, as if trying to suss something out.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into, Shiro,” is all she says in the end, fingers playing with the stem of her glass.

Shiro pats her shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be fine.”

As he exits the bar, making for the Black Lion, Shiro mulls over everything she’d said. It’s not much, but he’s got a name and an in on the next races, thanks to Matt. And with no long-haul jobs currently listed, he can take his time.

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

 

.o0o.

 

The next time Shiro docks on Reatis, there’s a canyon race scheduled. Matt’s gotten him a ticket ahead of time – one with enough premium to take a chunk out of his last job’s payment. But it gives him a way the patrons’ area later, will maybe let him talk with the red jockey if he’s anywhere to be found.

Matt had said something about Shiro’s fixation on this one racer, but Matt’s also a little shit, so Shiro had brushed it off.

(He’s not fixated, just – curious.)

The VIP pod he’s bought a ticket for has significantly less people and a better view of the start line. Out the window, the bronze desert of Reatis stretches to the horizon, shimmering under the sun. The canyon is a deep, gaping scar in the land, full of twists and cliffs and the prospect of a painful death at the bottom.

Shiro accepts a compscreen from one of the attendants by the doorway, and makes his way to one of the unoccupied sofas near the windows. He pretends to browse the list of jockeys idly, makes a few considering noises, but there’s only one he’s interested in.

 _Red Lightning_ is near the top of the list, this time racing on a two-engine hoverbike. Interesting choice for a canyon race, but Shiro knows better than to make judgments. He’s only mildly taken aback by the number of wagers placed on him – and the amount. Then again, he muses as he taps the screen to enter his own bet, judging by their reputation, _Red Lightning_ ’s proved themselves a good bet.

With no hesitation, Shiro places a large wager that on any other day would have made him wince. As it is, he doesn’t think twice.

He’s sure _Keith_ will make it worth the credits.

After that, it’s simply a waiting game until the race starts.

At the rev of engines, Shiro searches the racers for his bet. Keith’s hoverbike is a stunning work of engineering – bright red with white stripes, and two hyperspin engines sparking with bright blue energy arcs. The engines look magnetically attached for maximum rotation and manipulation. The tail has a series of fins – three each side – for drag; Shiro can imagine that when they fan out to maximum width, they’d look like wings.

Keith sits astride the bike, visor on, still in that red jacket. He’s fiddling with something on a screen. When the warning bell sounds and the countdown starts, he straightens, hands closing over the handlebars and engines whirring to life.

Shiro leans forward in anticipation.

The klaxon sounds.

Keith shoots off in a cloud of desert dust.

 

This time, there’s four of them in the lead.

Three crafts have already crashed out of the race, one in a spectacular explosion against the canyon wall. The four at the forefront weave around each other, pulling ahead only to be overtaken or jostled aside. There’s a turn fast approaching; a sharp, almost reverse clip that banks into a downward curve off a cliff to the bottom of the canyon.

Three of the four racecrafts pull back, slowing down to take the precipitous turn with care.

Keith – inexplicably, breathtakingly, _terrifyingly_ – pushes his engines to full and speeds up.

The three racers fall behind, banking slightly to the left in preparation. Keith keeps going, faster and faster.

Shiro’s half out of his seat when the red hoverbike shoots right off the edge of the cliff.

The bright blue energy arcs abruptly die as the engines shut off, sending the hoverbike plummeting to the ground in a dead drop.

Heart in his throat, Shiro watches as the hoverbike plunges downward, the ground just five hundred meters away – three hundred meters – two hundred—

Then Keith throws the engines on to full, cutting off his fall just in time. The kickback causes the ship to rebound into the air, then Keith accelerates off to veer back onto the track. He’s bypassed the downward curve entirely, leaving the three other racecrafts far, far behind.

It’s sheer genius.

_(Absolutely inspired.)_

Shiro watches as Keith crosses the finish line, one hand punching the air with glee. He actually does a small victory lap across the track, engine roaring in triumph. Then he throws a salute to the VIP section, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, Shiro thinks Keith’s saluting _him._

Then the screen jolts, splitting into a pan of the remaining racers and a rundown of the victory odds. Shiro smirks. Keith’s daredevil victory has, apparently, won him a cool 200,000 credits.

He taps the notification on the compscreen and authorizes a transfer to his account, then stands up. The other aliens are still hovering around, chattering. Shiro walks past them all, hands the compscreen back to the attendant, and heads out of the pod.

He’s got a jockey to chase.

 

The patrons’ area is already slightly crowded by the time Shiro arrives, even if he’d left right after Keith had finished the race. He looks around, searching for red amid the myriad aliens in the room. He spots the Ylirian jockey off to the side – a girl, and she’d been one of the lead racers behind Keith, Shiro realizes – and a few meters away, at the far side of the room—

Shiro stops dead in his tracks, breath caught in his throat.

The first thing he realizes is that Keith is _human_ – there’s no mistaking those features, the way he looks. He’s slight, all lean build and long limbs, all the lines of him like they’re drawn in fine pencil.

The second thing Shiro realizes is that Keith is – gorgeous.

There’s no other word for it. Black hair pulled into a loose, messy ponytail at the nape of his neck; high cheekbones and trim shoulders; legs that go on for days – Keith’s just… arresting.

If Shiro had been impressed by just his flying skills, then, well.

(He _wants._ He can’t deny that.)

Keith’s got his visor tucked under his arm, and is talking to someone by his hoverbike. Shiro watches that pretty mouth break into a wide grin as his companion ruffles his hair. The female alien with him is also tall, gracefully built, but something tells Shiro that’s not Keith’s backer.

(He wonders if they’re even here, if they’d watched that reckless and stunning maneuver that had won Keith the canyon race. He wonders if they understand just how skilled Keith is.)

Shiro makes his way over quietly to Keith. The other alien looks up, eyes narrowing as she spots him approaching. Shiro hopes his smile is warm and open as he comes to a halt a few paces away. “Hey, Red.”

“Can we help you?” the alien asks pointedly, looking him up and down with blatant disdain.

He tips his head towards Keith. “Your jockey just won me quite a lot of credits.” He smirks. “I wanted to pay my compliments.”

The alien returns his smirk, then acquiesces with a nod. “He’s not my jockey,” she says, flicking her gaze to Keith, “but he does deserve the praise.”

Then, to Keith, “we’ll see you later.”

Keith just nods in response, his eyes already cutting back to Shiro. There’s an edge to his expression, a wariness and a curiosity. Keith holds his gaze a moment longer, then turns to give the alien a small smile.

“See you.”

(It’s just two words, but it’s the first time Shiro’s hearing Keith’s voice, just a little rough at the edges. It makes Shiro think of steel under paper. He’s got a faint accent that Shiro can’t place.

And Keith’s eyes – Shiro’s never seen anything quite like them. Violet-grey, like a faraway galaxy.)

He holds out a hand. “Shirogane Takashi,” he says. “But most everyone calls me Shiro.”

There’s the slightest hesitation before Keith takes his hand. Shiro can feel callouses press into his palm.

“Keith,” is the simple reply.

“That was some flying,” Shiro says, when it’s clear Keith isn’t going to introduce himself further. He turns to admire the red hoverbike. “The dead-engine drop was particularly ingenious.”

“Mm.” There’s a pinched quirk to Keith’s mouth that says he’s amused. “Glad I was worth the bet.”

 _More than,_ Shiro wants to say, but he holds it back. “Oh, I’m not here because you won me the bet, Red,” he says instead.

That seems to catch Keith off-guard, but he schools his reaction quickly. His expression turns speculative as he looks Shiro up and down, more deliberately and ascertaining this time. Pretty eyes linger on the black geometric tattoo that covers Shiro’s left arm, exposed in his grey muscle tee.

(Shiro lets him look. He’s not here to hide his interest.)

Finally, Keith looks back up, meeting Shiro’s eyes. There’s a smugness to the line of his mouth.  “Really now,” he says, a slow drawl.

Shiro grins. “Really.”

For one electric moment they stand there, staring each other down, and then Keith turns away with an aborted laugh. “Well,” he says, watching Shiro out of the corner of his eye, “it was nice to meet you, Shiro.” (And the way he says the name – like he’s tasting it, rolling it over his tongue, _christ._ ) He gives a little wave, a careless gesture that has Shiro tracking the movements of slender fingers in black gloves. “Maybe I’ll make the next race worth your while.”

Shiro recognizes a dismissal when he sees one, and also an invitation. He gives a small, teasing bow.

“I look forward to it.”

 

.o0o.

 

That could have been the end of it, Shiro knows. He might have settled for one conversation, might have left Reatis and never come back unless a job compelled him. He might never have seen Keith again.

But Shiro remembers the look Keith had given him. The way Keith raced, like he was born for flight. And Shiro thinks, well, he’s never been good at leaving well alone.

Besides, the expression on Keith’s face when he’d seen Shiro come into the patrons’ area again, two weeks after they’d first met – well, if Shiro can keep making Keith look at him like that, it’ll all be worth it.

So it goes; Shiro keeps coming to Reatis in between jobs, watches the races. Keeps betting on Keith, because Keith keeps winning. And Shiro keeps seeking Keith out at the end of each race, to congratulate him and chat with him as much as they’re able.

It’s not the easiest thing, getting to know Keith. The jockey remains guarded, distant, like he’s holding Shiro at arm’s length even as he smiles and laughs and talks. He never gives away anything personal, although Shiro’s careful never to press either. In a lot of ways, Keith reminds him of a stray cat from back on Terra – cagey and circumspect, as if every interaction is a test, a way to gauge the other person, and Shiro can only hope he’s measuring up. Still, it’s worth navigating the intricacies to see the more honest moments, when the mask slips, when Keith lets his guard down, just a little.

“Why do you even keep coming back here?” Keith asks, one afternoon. They’re out on one of the many balconies that overlook the canyons, the gold-flecked earth that stretches out to the horizon. In the bright, ceaseless lights of the main city, the ground shimmers. There’s gold flecked in Keith’s eyes, too.

“Would it be corny if I said there’s just something about you?” Shiro quips, mouth pinched around a grin, and Keith throws his head back and laughs. It’s graceless and entirely uncontrived, lighting up his whole face, and Shiro can’t tear his eyes away.

(Not that he’s been able to look away from Keith since he’d found the jockey after the races. Shiro had gotten a look at Keith in tight, ripped jeans that hugged his legs like a second skin, and a wine-colored corset top under a cropped leather jacket, and had promptly forgotten how to breathe.)

“That would be terrible,” Keith says, shaking his head, and Shiro just shrugs, chuckling, and changes the topic. He’s not about to admit that he hadn’t been lying.

There’s really just something about Keith.

It’s that _something_ that has Shiro braving rejection and possible humiliation to turn to Keith one evening, steady breaths against an unsteady heart. They’re out in the desert, one of the outposts. Keith has just beat the pants off Shiro in an impromptu hoverbike race, one that had ended in them both breathless with laughter and covered in bronze dust.

Shiro thinks about the way Keith flies, how he makes it feel like freedom. Reatis is too small a planet to contain all that spirit.

“Have you ever thought about leaving?” he asks, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Keith pauses, halfway to taking a drink. His eyes flick over to Shiro, expression shuttered. He lowers the bottle, cradling it in his hands. Shiro bites his lip and waits.

“And go where?” Keith says lightly, corner of his lips turning up. It feels brittle.

Shiro shrugs. “Anywhere,” he replies, leaning back against his hoverbike. “There’s a whole universe out there. Skills like yours, there’s all sorts of places you could go.”

Keith is quiet, thumb idly stroking over the metal of his drink bottle. His gaze is fixed somewhere far off, in the direction of the main city. There’s the faintest curl to his mouth. He’s rose and gold in the setting sun. The way he looks – Shiro wants to lean in and kiss him.

Then Keith exhales sharply, looking away, and the moment’s broken.

“I’m already here,” he points out instead.

Shiro hums, turning his own gaze out over the desert, the city, the asteroid belt beyond. “True,” he concedes. “But you could also not be.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Got any suggestions, then, hotshot?”

It prompts a laugh out of Shiro. He runs a hand through his hair, contemplating, weighing his options. Then he turns back to Keith – all the lines of him like they’re drawn in fine pencil, long legs and stunning eyes – and thinks he’s put enough bets on Keith to know he’s worth the risk.

“You know parts of what I do,” he says, carefully, carefully. “Shipments, transport. Bounty hunting. It’s not the safest or steadiest job out there, but it’s – something.” He shrugs again. “Might be worth taking up. Coming with me.”

The look Keith’s giving him now is downright inscrutable. His eyes are narrowed, roving over Shiro like he’s searching for something, sussing something out. For a moment Shiro’s sure Keith’s going to say _no,_ but what comes out is – “why?”

It makes Shiro pause. There are a dozen different ways he could answer that question. He taps songsteel fingers on his thigh for a few seconds before smiling wryly.

“I don’t know your story,” he admits, “but I know your skills. I know you enough. You’re not meant for just racing through dust.”

Keith’s mouth pinches. Shiro ducks his head, ruffling his hair a bit, and gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “Anyway, just – think about it, yeah?”

Keith’s answering hum is non-commital, but it’s not a _no_ either. For Shiro, it’s still something.

 

Shiro ends up back in the Castle of Lions, on Port Arus.

Coran’s sympathetic expression has started to turn concerned as he slides a third glass of Etrusian vodka over to where Shiro’s slumped onto the bar, cheek pressed to the woodwork. Shiro catches it half-heartedly, sitting up to knock half the drink back in one go.

“Why did I do that,” he moans for possibly the eighth time that day alone, slumping back down. Beside him, Matt makes an exasperated noise. He’s had to suffer Shiro’s whining the past three days, and even then, it’s been one and a half weeks since Shiro had last seen Keith. That’s plenty of time to mope.

“Why did I just – ask him, like some kind of _idiot,_ ” and Shiro buries his face in his arms, figuring maybe if he tries hard enough, he’ll become one with the bar. “Sure he’s hot and he’s a damn good pilot, but _why._ ”

“I think you just answered yourself,” Matt points out dryly, and Shiro groans again. He’s just contemplating whether disappearing to the Outer Rim will be worth it when Matt taps him on the shoulder. “Quick question.”

“Mm?” Shiro doesn’t even look up.

“Your boy – no, just, bear with me,” Matt adds, as Shiro turns to glare at him. “Dark hair, really pretty, legs for days?”

“Yeah?” Shiro lifts his head, squinting at Matt blearily. His friend is looking in the direction of the bar’s entrance. “Why?”

In lieu of an answer, Matt hops off his seat and pats Shiro on the shoulder. “Gotta go,” he says, and then abruptly, he’s gone, disappeared to gods-know-where in the crowd.

Shiro frowns, trying to look for Matt, when he feels someone slide into the seat by his right.

“So,” comes a familiar, lilting voice. Shiro whirls around, almost throwing himself off-balance, to find Keith sitting beside him. Long legs in leather pants dangle off the stool, and he’s wearing a burgundy shirt with a deep v-neck that makes Shiro want to bite at the exposed skin. He’s a vision. Shiro’s maybe drunk.

“Uhm,” he says, eloquently.

Keith smirks, props an elbow on the bartop and rests his chin on his palm. “About that job offer?”

Shiro blinks, staring at Keith for a few moments before his brain processes the words. And that – “wait, what?”

The other boy’s expression is quickly turning to restrained amusement. “I believe you offered me a job.”

“But what about the racing? Your backer?”

Keith shrugs, gives a careless wave of his hand. He’s still wearing his fingerless gloves. “It’s fine.”

It makes Shiro frown. “That’s… it?”

“Yeah?” Keith raises his eyebrows, straightening up. He looks down at where his fingers are drumming a nonsense rhythm on the bartop. “It was only ever just a way to fly.”

“Huh.” Shiro searches Keith’s expression, his body language, trying to find a catch, but for the first time Keith’s… open, honest. He reaches out, smirking faintly; takes Shiro’s glass and drains the rest of it.

“So when do we start?” Keith asks, licking the stray wetness off his lips like a satisfied cat. Shiro’s eyes track the flick of his tongue, then lift to meet Keith’s. A corner of his lips quirks up.

“Any time,” he answers, shifting so he sits up better, leaning his weight on one arm. “Now, if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” This time Keith’s tone is a provocation, one finger idling around the rim of the glass. He bites his lip. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Shiro holds out his songsteel hand; Keith takes it. “Then welcome aboard.”

 

.o0o.

 

Working and living with Keith quickly turns a little… complicated.

The Black Lion has always been a little big for just Shiro, although he’s used to and even come to appreciate having all this space to himself. But with Keith in it, the ship suddenly feels crowded. Not that Keith has too many belongings (he barely has any), or that he makes a mess (he’s as neat and militaristic as Shiro).

It’s just that in the two weeks Keith’s been on the ship, it feels like he’s _everywhere._

Lounging in the rec space, long legs sprawled out over the couch. Bent over inspecting something in the HVAC hatch, fabric of his shorts pulled tight around his ass. Seated on the small kitchen counter, licking majoran jam off his fingers. Stretching his arms overhead as he enters the cockpit, so his shirt rides up to reveal a sliver of skin.

Shiro’s known, from the first time seeing him in person, that Keith is – arresting. Striking. Gorgeous. But he’s come to learn that Keith can also be a downright _menace._

This afternoon, Shiro’s looking for his violet work jacket, the one he likes to wear while checking the inner workings of the Black Lion. He’s wandered over to the laundry room and shower area, thinking maybe he’d left it in the hamper, when he looks up and—

Keith’s standing in the small room, barefooted and back turned to the door. At the sound of Shiro’s entry, he half-turns to look at the other boy, a corner of his mouth curling up. Slowly, intently, he continues unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it down off his arms in a deliberate tease. The motions expose toned arms and plenty of skin, but that’s not what’s got Shiro looking.

“Wow, Red.” Shiro whistles, low and sweet, as his eyes trace the sweep of one red-and-black wing where it curls over Keith’s left shoulder. The whole piece goes down, down, stretching across both shoulders and snaking its way around the left side of Keith’s back, until the edges of it disappear under the tops of his jeans. “That’s—”

“Alexstrasza.” There’s a smirk in Keith’s voice as he lets the shirt fall to the floor, rolls his shoulders. The movements make the muscles of his back shift, and Shiro’s mesmerized.

“The Dragonqueen.” Shiro bites his bottom lip, looking Keith over, because that’s – that’s a hell of a view. It’s also a very interesting piece of information, because – “you’re Rhokhairi.”

Keith glances over to Shiro as he leans to snag a fresh washcloth from on top of the laundry machine. He crumples it in his hand. The look he gives Shiro is blatantly provocative. “And if I am?”

Shiro shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “Nothing much.” He’s still unabashedly staring. It’s an extensive tattoo, stark against Keith’s skin. Shiro maybe wants to put his mouth on it. “Been wondering where those flying skills came from.”

Keith snorts out a laugh, pursing his lips as his shoulders shake. Heading towards the bathroom, he looks back to Shiro in a mix of amusement, provocation, and pride. His teeth are bared in a not-quite-grin.

“Everywhere and nowhere,” he says casually, carelessly, and then he shuts the bathroom door.

It’s a dismissal if Shiro’s ever seen one, and he makes a graceful exit after finding his jacket. But he first makes a stop at the kitchen to splash cold water all over his face and catch his breath, and to will away the boner that’s starting to form in his pants.

 _Fucking hell,_ he thinks, slumping against the counter with a weak laugh.

Maybe more than a little complicated.

 

Shiro tries to keep their first job together simple.

He accepts an assignment from an acquaintance, another bounty hunter passing on a job they can’t do. Basic enough, as far as things go – chasing down a wanted Galra smuggler named Ranveig on Laakari. All they have to do is find him, knock him out, and bring him in to drop off at the nearest Galactic Patrol outpost.

The plan is to have Keith go in and drive their mark out, after which Shiro will cut him off and apprehend him.

Simple.

In hindsight, after all the years he’s been working this stint, Shiro should know better than to assume things will go according to plan.

For one, Ranveig is significantly better-armed than they’d been led to believe. He’s also much more cunning and agile than his reputation suggests. And for another, he’s also grown significantly more paranoid in his years evading Zarkon’s fury. Shiro doesn’t know what about Keith has tipped Ranveig off, but the supposedly-straightforward bounty hunt goes from a setup to a fight pretty quick. And from his position in the hoverpod, watching through some piggybacked security cameras, Shiro learns a few things:

> One, Keith apparently carries a very lethal-looking luxite blade strapped in a sheath at his back;
> 
> Two, Keith is terrifyingly proficient in the use of the luxite blade, and in hand-to-hand combat in general; and,
> 
> Three, Shiro has a bit of a kink for watching Keith fight.

He watches Keith take a running leap off a parked hoverpod and tackle Ranveig to the ground, and promptly informs himself that he should _not_ find that as hot as he does. Except it is. Very hot.

“Shiro!” The sound of his name over the comms startles Shiro out of his daze (in which he’d adamantly _not_ been watching Keith’s ass). He shakes his head and turns his focus to the screens to find Keith running down another side street. “Get over here, I think I’ve got him cornered.”

“On my way.” Shiro taps at the screens then turns the controls, zeroing in on Keith’s location.

“Good, because—” There’s a pause, and a crackle of static. Keith swears under his breath. “Oh fuck.”

Shiro’s about to ask _what’s happening_ when he turns the corner just in time to see Ranveig in a hoverpod of his own, which is small but sports a pair of rather threatening blasters up front. He feels the blood drain from his face, because those blasters are currently trained on Keith, who’s backing away as quickly as he can while trying to search for cover.

In the ten seconds it takes for Ranveig to fire, Shiro maneuvers to drop directly in front of Keith. He turns the pod around and directs full power to the rear shields, then pops the canopy just as the first shots hit.

“Get in!” he yells over the noise of blastfire, gesturing Keith into the cockpit as he unstraps himself. Then he activates the secondary weapons control system as Keith clambers inside.

“What’s the plan?” Keith shouts, one hand braced on the pilot’s chair. He flinches as a stray blaster shot clips the top of the canopy.

“You pilot, I shoot!” Shiro settles himself into the secondary gunner’s perch behind the pilot’s chair, hauling down the sighter that’ll help him target Ranveig. The weapons control system pops out from the panel in front of him. He can feel Keith settle into the pilot’s seat, hears the pneumatic hiss as the canopy closes over them.

“Ready?” Keith asks, and Shiro barely gets out the _yes_ before they’re off.

It takes all of a few moments for Shiro to see that Keith has a pilot’s instincts beyond that of a jockey in a hovercraft race. The other boy takes them to the air as quickly as possible, then makes for the open stretch of the deadlands beyond the fringes of the city. Their pod might be bigger, but in the confines of the city, they have less maneuverability and less of an advantage. There’d be far too much collateral and too much cover for Ranveig, too.

Adjusting the sights over his eyes, Shiro smirks. He’s going to have to ask Keith about that, one day.

For now, he lets Keith take them out across the deadlands. As they hurtle over the barren earth, he uses the system’s targeting assistance to open fire on Ranveig behind them. A shot takes out one of his blasters, but he’s maneuvering too quickly for Shiro to aim properly at the other one. He grits his teeth.

“I can’t take both blasters out,” he tells Keith, adjusting aim again. “I need a clear shot on his pod.”

He feels Keith shift. “Most vulnerable point?”

“Pod like that, engine’s located up top, near the back.”

“Got it.” Shiro can hear the sounds of Keith tapping at some things on the pilot screens. Then, “hang on tight.”

The _why_ dies in Shiro’s lungs as Keith pitches them sharply upwards.

They rocket up, quickly putting a great deal of distance between them and Ranveig’s pod – the Galra hasn’t reacted fast enough to their abrupt change in direction. Keith overrides Shiro for a brief moment to reorient their own blasters forward.

“I can give you about five good seconds,” Keith says calmly. “Make ‘em count.”

Then he kills the engines and tilts the pod around.

Through the sights, Shiro gets a momentary, terrifying view of the barren earth dozens of meters below them, and Ranveig’s pod square in his target. Instinct propels him to lock the aim and fire, three consecutive shots.

The rear section of Ranveig’s pod blows, sending the Galra skittering over the deadlands and rolling to a stop some distance away.

Shiro doesn’t get to savor his precision, however, because their own pod is plummeting to the ground. It’s only the harness that keeps him from being thrown off the gunner’s perch. He can’t find his voice, but thankfully Keith pulls up easily, using the momentum to propel them to where Ranveig’s ship had crashed. They cruise to a halt a few meters away.

There’s a few moments of silence where they both catch their breaths, and Shiro wonders if Keith knows the meaning of fear at all.

Then Keith clears his throat and asks, “so… what do we do with him?”

Shiro stares at him, dumbfounded. Keith looks back, head tilted in mild confusion. There’s a tickle in the back of Shiro’s throat.

When he opens his mouth, he finds it’s a laugh.

 

They arrive back on the Black Lion after turning Ranveig in at Laakari’s Galactic Patrol outpost. There’s a sharp thrum of adrenaline still in Shiro’s system, from the chase and the crossfire and from the _feel_ of Keith piloting the ship, all precision and intuition. It’s an electric crackle over his skin, a hum of static in his veins. Shiro watches Keith stride into the rec space, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over one of the couches. Under his loose grey tank top, the dragon tattoo shifts over his skin.

(Shiro’s never been good at leaving well alone.)

Five quick steps bring him within touching distance of Keith. His hands come up to span the other boy’s waist. Shiro ducks his head and breathes in the scent of city dust and sweat in Keith’s hair, tugging lightly until Keith’s leaning back against his chest.

“That’s very forward of you,” Keith points out, but there’s a smirk in his voice as he tips his head to the side in open invitation.

Shiro takes it.

“Tell me,” he asks, quietly, running his lips over the curl of one red dragon wing on skin and dragging his palms down to the jut of Keith’s hips, “if I were to touch you like a lover, how would you have me do it?”

In his arms, Keith shivers, leaning into the touch. His gaze shutters. He’s pliant like this, malleable, like Shiro could simply push him down onto the couch and have his way. The thought makes the heat spark white-hot in Shiro’s groin.

He presses his open mouth to Keith’s neck.

Murmurs, “show me.”

 

They end up in Shiro’s bedroom.

There’s a small trail of clothing in their wake, mostly Shiro’s. He lost his jacket in the living room, then his shirt somewhere between there and his door. Keith’s tank top lies at the threshold. Their shoes litter the floor. And Shiro has Keith sprawled out on his sheets, cheeks lightly flushed and lips lightly parted, chest rising and falling. Shiro has Keith underneath him, caged in by his arms, legs splayed out on either side of Shiro’s. And just the sight of him alone – hair fanned out over the sheets, a hickey already blooming on his throat – is enough to make Shiro’s blood run hot.

“Gorgeous,” he says absently, reaching out to run his thumb over a scar over Keith’s shoulder. He’s got quite a number of them, strewn over his torso and arms, and Shiro’s sure there’s more he hasn’t yet seen. Perhaps one day he’ll get their stories; for now, he savors the way Keith shivers under his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“Such a pretty boy,” he adds, and whatever biting retort Keith has is lost in a moan as Shiro leans down to trace the same scar with his mouth. The dog tags he still wears around his neck dangle onto Keith’s skin. He keeps going, kissing and licking his way down Keith’s body until the other boy is panting, hands clenched on the pillows overhead.

“Shiro,” he gasps, arching up off the mattress, and Shiro responds by biting around one nipple then sucking, hands running down Keith’s back to cup the swell of his ass. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Mm.” Shiro laps at Keith’s chest one last time before shifting down, back muscles flexing as he lowers himself over Keith’s pelvis. He mouths a hot trail over the curve of one hip, tags clinking with his movements, palms sliding down the outside of long legs. Then he goes lower, dragging teeth over Keith’s jeans, up the inner seam until he gets in between Keith’s thighs. He feels Keith tense just slightly as he presses his open mouth to the inseam, tongue laving over the fabric.

His eyes flick up as he pulls back momentarily, catching Keith’s gaze. The other boy is staring back at him, expression defiant and provocative. A corner of Shiro’s mouth curls as he pushes himself up and presses a kiss to Keith’s hip bone.

“May I?” he asks, all politeness, fingers skimming the tops of Keith’s jeans. The other boy snorts and rolls his eyes, but tips his hips up in clear answer. Shiro huffs a laugh and quickly undoes the fly, tugging the clothing down and off as he litters kisses over Keith’s skin.

The black lace boy shorts make him pause.

“Well, well, Red,” Shiro says under his breath, grinning as he runs his thumb under the hem, over the crease of Keith’s inner thigh. “What do we have here?”

Keith smirks. “Like what you see?”

Shiro’s eyes darken as he runs them over Keith’s body where it’s sprawled out in front of him. He catches his lower lip between his teeth. “Yeah,” he says, then he leans down. “Yeah, I do.”

He starts carefully, kissing his way up Keith’s inner thigh, feeling for Keith’s reactions. The other boy squirms under his touch, hips shifting in anticipation. Shiro lifts back up just enough to catch Keith’s eye, and licks his lips with a wink.

“There’ll be a bit of a learning curve,” he says, casually, dragging his teeth over plush skin. “But I pick things up quickly. Just tell me what you like.”

Then he ducks his head, presses his mouth to where Keith’s wet and waiting, and sucks.

Keith bucks against him, hands flying back up overhead as he makes a choked noise. Shiro wraps his songsteel arm around a toned thigh to hold the other boy place as he starts eating Keith out, laving his tongue over the lace fabric and suckling. He’s largely used to sucking cock, but there’s a pleasure in this too, in the way Keith tastes and the way he writhes and the way he gasps when Shiro nibbles just a little. Shiro uses his free hand to pull the lace aside, then dives back in and this time Keith’s voice cracks on a wail.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, hands coming down and burying themselves in Shiro’s hair. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Shiro allows himself a little smile before swiping his tongue up wet folds and then dipping inside. He licks his way into Keith, face buried between his thighs, using the other boy’s reactions as a guide for what feels good. His jaw is covered in spit and slick, but Shiro keeps going until he feels Keith’s thighs tighten around him and hands tug desperately at his hair.

“Shiro,” Keith pants, grinding his hips down. Shiro flicks his tongue over the sensitive nub under his mouth in answer. He sucks, grazes with his teeth, pushes his tongue in, and Keith shudders around him as he comes.

Shiro works Keith through it with his lips and his tongue, stopping only when Keith’s hands push clumsily at his head. He eases the boy shorts off Keith’s hips, mindful of how sensitive Keith currently is, then pushes up and presses a few soft kisses to slender shoulders. His fingers lightly trace over the tattoo on Keith’s back.

“Fuck,” Keith says again, when he’s caught his breath.

“That’s the idea,” Shiro points out mildly, and then he laughs when Keith glares at him and shoves him over. He throws a leg over both of Shiro’s so he’s straddling the Shiro’s lap. Keith kisses like he pilots – intense, instinctive, and just a little reckless. His fingers scratch at the nape of Shiro’s neck; his palms press the ball chain into heated skin. His hips grind down into Shiro’s, making him groan into the press of their lips. Shiro fumbles to get his own pants undone, shoving them partly down his hips, just enough to free his cock. Keith rolls his hips, and the way he slides over Shiro’s cock makes them both gasp.

“Condom?” Shiro gets out, distracted by the curve of Keith’s shoulder and the way his skin tastes.

Keith shakes his head, arching into Shiro. “No need,” he rasps, ducking his head to catch Shiro in a kiss. He pulls back to drag his lips over Shiro’s jaw, fingers digging into black-inked skin. “I want to feel you.”

“Fuck.” This time it’s Shiro who swears through gritted teeth, pressing the word into Keith’s throat. His cock twitches at the thought. “Yeah, okay. Okay.”

They get lost then, in touch and in each other. Shiro drags Keith against him, kissing and kissing, running his palms over as much of Keith as he can reach. Keith bites at his lips, scratching over Shiro’s shoulders and chest, makes all sorts of pretty noises. And when he finally sinks down onto Shiro, hot and wet, he lets out a small, bitten-off cry that Shiro catches in his own mouth.

(One day, Shiro will do more. One day he’ll pour Keith out onto the sheets like a fine Martusian wine and work him for _hours,_ until Keith’s a flushed and shaking wreck. He’ll take his time, learn what makes Keith gasp, makes him writhe, makes him _scream._ He’ll run his mouth over the tattoo on Keith’s back as he works his hand inside Keith, rut between toned thighs, paint the red ink over with his cum.

One day. They’ll have more days. Right now, he just wants Keith to _move_.)

It starts off slow, in little rolls of Keith’s hips and the way he pants open-mouthed against Shiro. Keith rocks teasingly over Shiro, reaching down to play with himself. “Been thinking about this,” he breathes out, eyes half-shut as his fingers trace where Shiro’s buried inside him. “Been wondering how you’d fuck me, what you’d feel like inside me, _fuck,_ so big you’d fill me right up—”

“ _Keith._ ” Shiro’s fingers dig into plush thighs as he desperately tries to buck his hips up, get more, get _anything._ “God, baby, _please_.”

Keith laughs breathlessly, clenches around Shiro’s cock. “Imagining how you’d take me, here in your bed or right on the couch or up against the wall, right in the cockpit—”

He’s cut off as Shiro growls and rolls them over, pinning Keith to the mattress underneath him. If Keith has any protests, they’re lost as soon as Shiro braces on his knees and starts fucking Keith in earnest. His hips snap forward as his arms hike Keith’s legs over his shoulders so he can get a little deeper. And Keith throws his head back with a cry, hands scrabbling at the sheets.

“ _Fuck,_ that’s good,” he gets out. One hand reaches down to rub at himself; Shiro stares at it, at where his cock drives in and out of Keith’s slick hole. Keith clenches around him again and Shiro groans, turns his face into Keith’s calf and pressing his teeth to skin. Keith’s noises get higher and higher pitched, breathier, until he stutters on an inhale, coming around Shiro’s cock.

It feels – _incredible._ Keith feels incredible, and Shiro thrusts a few more times before abruptly pulling out, dropping Keith’s legs to the bed. He jerks himself off quickly, coming in quick spurts, groaning low in his throat. His cum paints Keith’s folds, leaving him a slick, sloppy mess. Then before Keith starts to come down, Shiro reaches out and runs his fingers through the mess, sliding three fingers into Keith and curling them, all wet squelching sounds and slick feeling, and Keith comes again like that, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

He whines when Shiro withdraws his fingers, shivering in the aftermath. Shiro’s quick to shush Keith with kisses, petting him gently as he comes down. “Okay?” he asks, curling his palm over the flare of Keith’s ribs.

It takes a few moments, but Keith nods, breathing still a little erratic. “Yeah,” he rasps, leaning into Shiro’s touch. “Yeah.”

Shiro grins. “Need me to carry you to the shower?”

It prompts a chuckle out of Keith, and a weak smack. “Fuck off,” he says, rolling onto his side so he’s half-tucked against Shiro. “I’ll get up in a bit, just. Let me get the feeling in my legs back.”

“As you wish,” Shiro quips, and Keith smacks him again. They lie together for a few moments before Keith gingerly pushes himself up.

“Right,” he says, surveying the mess between his legs and on the sheets. “I’ll go, uh. Clean up.”

Shiro laughs. “You do that,” he replies, sitting up and snatching a kiss from Keith’s lips. He tucks himself back into his pants, adjusts the tags around his neck. “I’ll go figure out dinner.”

“Why thank you, husband,” Keith drawls, and then he has to duck as Shiro makes to cuff him on the head.

“Go take your shower,” he says, fond and exasperated, and then he turns to leave.

Keith’s answering laugh follows him out of the room.

 

.o0o.

 

Shiro wakes up to find Keith’s gone.

He’s… surprised, honestly. Sure, they hadn’t gone to bed together – not because Shiro hadn’t wanted to – but last night had definitely still been a good time. He still remembers Keith trying to ‘help’ with dinner preparations turning into Keith bent over the table while Shiro fingered him and ran his mouth over the tattoo. He’d sucked pretty red marks all over Keith’s neck ( _because they look good on you, Red,_ he tells Keith, as he bites down at the base of Keith’s throat and the other boy tightens around his fingers). And dinner itself had been pleasant, with easy conversation and the sight of Keith throwing his head back in laughter. Shiro can still hear the tease in Keith’s voice as he’d said _good night._

But now Shiro’s staring at a hangar that’s missing a red hoverbike, and no Keith.

The x-wing fighter is still moored to the Black Lion, so Keith can’t have gone very far, not on just a hoverbike. But there’s no note, no way for Shiro to know when Keith’s coming back – if he’s coming back. He doesn’t even know how long Keith’s been gone.

He tries hailing Keith on his commpod, but can’t even get a connection, much less send anything through. So Shiro’s left standing in the middle of the rec space with uncertainty curling in his gut, and no Keith.

After a few moments, Shiro decides to just – go about his day, check in the job, collect their reward. Check in with Matt if he’s got anything new. Maybe pick up some supplies from town.

(He’ll wait. There’s no harm in waiting.)

 

It’s well past Laakari’s second sunset by the time Keith gets back.

Shiro’s kneeling on the floor, arms buried inside a section of the Black Lion’s wiring, looking for the loose connection that’s causing the lights in the cockpit to fritz. He looks up in surprise when the door to systems room slides open and Keith’s on the other side. He looks dusty, hair a little windswept and skin an irritated red around his eyes where his goggles had undoubtedly dug in.

But he’s back. He’d come back.

Slowly, Shiro straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. He looks at Keith, and Keith looks at the far wall, gaze a little lowered. They stand for a few moments in silence while Shiro wonders if he should say something. Ask Keith why he’d gone. Ask why he’d come back.

It’s Keith who talks first.

“I could go back to Reatis,” he says, without preamble. His voice is quiet, expression shuttered. Shiro sits quiet. “I could go back to racing. I could leave.”

He could. Shiro knows that. There’s a whole life waiting back on Reatis for Keith, if he wants it.

“You could,” Shiro says out loud, looking up at Keith.

“But you asked me to come with you.” Keith’s eyes meet his. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

“Tell me to stay.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, Shiro realizes. Keith says it like he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop this entire time and now he needs to know it never will. And Shiro considers, for a moment, letting Keith go – telling him that it’s his choice, that if he wants to go back to Reatis then Shiro will let him. There are more than enough reasons.

Carefully, Shiro gets to his feet. He walks towards Keith, stopping once he’s within arm’s reach. Telegraphing his movements, keeping his eyes on the other boy the whole while, Shiro lifts his hand – the human one – and brushes the backs of his fingers over Keith’s cheek.

Says, “stay.”

Keith’s eyes close; he leans into Shiro’s touch just a little. The corners of his lips quirk up.

“Not the safest or steadiest job,” he quips, and it takes Shiro a few moments to remember why the words are familiar.

“No,” he says, mouth pinched around a smile. “But it’s something.”

 

They have dinner together. Keith goes off to shower and change while Shiro cooks. The meal is a quiet one, but it’s comfortable. Keith doesn’t offer where he’d gone and Shiro doesn’t ask.

Keith’s smile is soft as he says good night.

When Shiro wakes up in the morning, Keith’s still there.

He watches Keith stumble into the small kitchen and dining room, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired, just as he’s done since he’d started living on board the ship. Shiro hides his smile in the rim of his mug.

“We have a job,” he says, once Keith’s consumed enough coffee to be coherent. “Allura passed it on this morning.”

“Hmm?” Keith shuffles over to the cabinets. “Bounty hunt?”

“Not this time.” Shiro’s expression scrunches slightly. “Retrieval. Stolen Olkari technology.”

“Huh.” Keith’s head pokes up from where he’s digging around in the cabinets for something to eat that isn’t Shiro’s preferred cereal bars. “Where to?”

Shiro huffs in amusement. “Ever been to Thilles?”

Keith’s expression turns contemplative for a moment. “Can’t say I have.”

The mug clinks as Shiro sets it down on the counter with a smile.

“Then it’ll be an adventure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed the story ^__^ Feel free to guess who Keith's backer is (tbh, if you know my biases, it's fairly obvious LOL). Come say hi on social media – I'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) on Twitter; my NSFW account with more trans!Keith HCs and general Voltron fucky stuff is [@keithy_cat](https://twitter.com/keithy_cat). Meanwhile, advance posting of my other projects + other perks are on [@aya_creates](https://twitter.com/aya_creates). You can check there for ways to support my writing+art!


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